Brothers
by ihadtoputitsomewhere
Summary: It's the anniversary of Stiles' mother's death. He texted me at 1am.


Stiles wasn't at school today.

When people asked me where he was I told them he was sick. If only that was the case.

Today marked the anniversary of Stiles' mother's death. This was the hardest day of the year for him, so of course I was expecting it when he sent me a text at 1 in the morning.

**S.S: "You up?"**

**S.M: "Yeah, what's up?"**

**S.S: "Dad's drunk."**

**S.M: "The front door is unlocked. Come by if you need to."**

**S.S: "I'm sitting in your driveway."**

I smiled at that. Of course he was.

**S.M: "Coming."** I typed back as I swung my legs off my bed and stood up. I threw on an old Blink-182 t-shirt and headed downstairs as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake up my mom.

The door opened, revealing Stiles looking beat. His hair was a mess; he was wearing a ratty t-shirt, plaid pajama pants, and Adidas slide-ons.

"Hey." I said, stepping aside so that Stiles could come in.

"Hey. Sorry it's so late, I just couldn't stay there while he was—you know, and he was—"

"Don't worry about it. You know you can come here whenever."

He looked at me, his eyes searching my face as if there was a catch, as if this was too good to be real. He looked tired…exhausted, actually.

"So… how are you?" I asked, returning his tired gaze.

"I'm fine, really, I am. Besides its not me you should be worried about." He paused. "Dad wouldn't let the bottle of Jack out of his sight today. I don't even think he knows I left." He forced out a laugh, but I could see right through it.

"Stiles, you know you don't have to do that." I said softly, putting my hand on his shoulder.

"Do what?" he asked, keeping his gaze fixed on the wood floor.

"Pretend. Act like everything is fine. Hold your gloves in front of your face and wait for someone to take a swing. So, I'm going to ask you again. Only this time, I want you to tell me the truth. How are you?"

He looked up from his spot on the floor and into my eyes. Sad, Basset-Hound eyes met mine and stayed there. His expression was stoic, indifferent. But his eyes gave him away. They were filled with pain, anger, regret, sorrow, and sadness. Silence screamed at me from all different directions, then suddenly it was shattered by Stiles' broken voice.

"I don't know. I… honestly don't know. Not anymore. Intense pain and pure joy are the same now. I can't—I don't know, Scott. I don't know." His voice broke off and he slumped back against the front door, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor and hugging his knees.

I slid down beside him, bringing my knees up to my chest.

"How did we get here, Scott? When did _this _become who we are? Damaged, broken, pathetic excuses for people." His hands were balled up in fists, but I could still see them shaking. I could hear his heartbeat, unsteady and loud. Panic. I reached out, put my hand on his knee and squeezed.

I loved that, the way he almost automatically relaxed at my touch, and the way he trusted me. After his mom died, it was hard for him to really get close to anyone. I think he was afraid that they were just going to leave him when they had had their fill. His heartbeat calmed a bit, and he let out a long breath.

"I miss my mom." He whispered, barely audible. It sounded like something a 7-year-old kid would say to a babysitter just to give them a hard time, but now we both felt the weight of his words.

"I know, Stiles. Believe me, I know. But it'll get better. It always does, right?" I swung my arm around his shoulders and he melted into my touch.

"I don't know anymore. I don't remember what 'better' feels like. I don't remember what anything feels like. Maybe it would be better, you know? To not feel anything at all. It's got to be better than being numb, than living in a world with people you _know _can feel. Wouldn't it just be better to die, and know you're not missing out on feeling anything?"

I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. That was probably the most morbid thing that has ever come out of my best friend's mouth. I swallowed hard, trying to find the words that would begin to heal his open wounds.

"Stiles, do you remember that night, at that one motel? What was it? The—"

"Glen Capri"

"Right, the Glen Capri. That night, I couldn't feel anything. I was numb. I was dying and practically dead already, so I didn't see the point in living. Wolfsbane, it doesn't create these feelings, it just brings them out of the deepest and darkest corners of your mind, where they lie benign until something triggers them. I was poisoned, yeah, but I also had developed those thoughts, about cutting my life short, before the Wolfsbane had even come into play. Stiles, you—you saved me. You talked me down off of that ledge and saved my life. You said we were brothers. You said if I was going to do this, then I was going to have to take you with me. I couldn't do that. I couldn't let you cut your life short then, and I'm not going to let you cut your life short now. So Stiles, step down from the ledge. Come down here, with me, where it's safe and I know I can protect you."

I looked over at Stiles, my best friend, my brother. He was staring at me, mouth open, and eyes wide. Then suddenly his eyebrows furrowed and his bottom lip quivered violently, and he began to cry. He fell into my shoulder, and I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close. He cried and he cried, finally letting himself feel something. Even though it was sadness, it was _something._ And something is good enough for me.

Sobs racked through his body, forcing out whimpers and even shouts as he let the wall he built around himself crumble. It was hard for him to let go, especially in front of other people. But here, with me, Stiles was doing exactly that. He didn't have to pretend that everything was okay, because I knew him well enough to know that that's not true.

He was shaking, trembling as the emotion ran through him. He cried for his mom, who left this world too soon. He cried for his dad, who drowned his sorrows in whiskey. He cried for all the people in this town he couldn't save. But most of all he cried for himself, because it had been a really long time since he last did something like that.

And I let him. I didn't try to rebuild the wall; I let it crumble to the ground. I didn't say anything because right now all Stiles needed was something, some_one_, who didn't try and sugar coat the hardships of day-to-day life in Beacon Hills. He needed something real, someone who wasn't falling apart. Stiles needed an anchor to hold onto him as he let himself float, so that he didn't end up lost at sea.

The sobs slowly became silent tears. The shouts ceased. His breathing steadied. The worst was over.

I stood up and reached down with both hands. "Come on." I said softly. Stiles wiped the tears with the back of his hand before reaching up and grabbing hold of mine. I led him up to my room, taking a pillow and some blankets from my closet and tossing them on the ground.

I gestured to my bed, "You take the bed."

"Scott I can't—"

"Dude, I can literally sleep anywhere. You know that. Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.

"Yes!" I half-laughed, half-spoke. "Get in."

"I owe you man." He said with a smile as he crawled into bed.

"No, you don't. Brothers, remember?"

"Yeah," he said sleepily. "Brothers."


End file.
